


The Tempest's Shadow

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: To Burn Among Stars [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Asexual Inquisitor, Asexual Relationship, Best Friends, Character Death, Corypheus as a legitimate threat, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Death, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Deviates From Canon, Discrimination, Drama, Dreamsharing, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Intrigue, Magic, Moral Ambiguity, Orlesian Culture and Customs, Political upheaval, Politics, Racism, Religion, Religious Conflict, Revenge, Romance, Tags May Change, The Fade, Violence, War, Wycome, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: After the fall of Haven, Venara Lavellan finds herself named the leader of an organization she can barely comprehend, heading a fight she never asked for. Swept into a world fraught with war, magic and political intrigue, Venara is determined to use her newfound position to change the lives of mages and elves for the better. The only retreat she has from the chaos is her hesitant, but growing relationship with Solas.However, when Venara's revolutionary choices and growing magical power threaten an already fragile Thedas, the nations of the world cast doubt on her position as Inquisitor. Despite her efforts, Venara is torn between her morals, her duty and her faith. Soon, even the Inquisition is uncertain whether she can truly save the world... or doom it forever.





	1. The Blessing of Mythal

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a labour of love.
> 
> I started _The Tempest's Shadow_ about a year and a half ago as a project that expanded on behind-the-scenes moments with my Inquisitor, Venara. Since then, it has grown into a much larger story, just as Venara has grown into a much more distinctive character. I wanted to capture the intrigue and politics of the Inquisition and the threat of Corypheus in a new light, specifically from the perspective of a Dalish Inquisitor. This is not the events of DA:I as you know it. I am changing things up, following the characters on their paths and creating an entirely new story. While some major events might echo significant quests of the game, this is wildly canon-divergent. 
> 
> The Elven in the text is made up, with reference to in-game Elven and some reference to fan archives like Project Elvhen. Similarly, Qunlat is also created by me with reference to its Dragon Age wiki entry. French is a stand-in for Orlesian, as Spanish is for Antivan.
> 
> I am terrible with typos. Even though I do my best to proof-read thoroughly, some always manage to slip through. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and supported the original story. I hope you enjoy this re-write. As I am balancing multiple projects, I will not be able to post weekly, but I am hoping to get a chapter up at least once a month (or, if I'm lucky, twice a month). 
> 
> If you enjoy Venara, please check out my short stories featuring her, which are collected in the _To Burn Among Stars_ series. 
> 
> Comments are adored and appreciated--I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you have questions or concerns about the content/tags/warnings, feel free to shoot me a message on tumblr at [@idrelle-miocovani](http://idrelle-miocovani.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks for reading.

# PROLOGUE

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
The Blessing of Mythal**

Green and yellow light streaked across the early evening sky, its path jagged and erratic as it flashed among the clouds. It was no more aberrant, no more unnatural than the day it had appeared two months ago.   

Ciaran scowled as he watched its progress. He couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of unease that overcame him whenever he looked upwards. And yet, he also could not look away. There was something mesmerizing about that green light. At first, they thought it was a comet, one that had not been seen for hundreds of years. There was much whispered excitement in the clan that day. Was it an omen, foretelling doom? Or was it a message from the gods, one that had escaped the confines of their unearthly prison? But the whispers ceased when Keeper Istimatheoriel uncovered an astrarium and examined it further. The light, she said, was magical in nature, released from a source far to the south. It was nothing to concern the clan. 

Lies. 

Ciaran had watched as Istimaethoriel and the hahrens gathered in a clearing, night after night, furiously debating the reason behind the light’s appearance and the best course of action. Ciaran knew it was against clan law to eavesdrop on a vhellal—some words were for the ears of keepers and hahrens only—but he couldn’t help himself. The light was a question and questions needed answers. 

Though his ears were keen, he didn’t overhear as much as he would like. Istimaethoriel was no fool; she would expect disobedience from the da’vial. She had cast a barrier around the vhellal, muffling their words. Ciaran was reduced to reading their lips, though the shadows cast by the trees masked much of their faces. What he did read lead to more questions. Istimaethoriel spoke of a great disturbance in Ferelden, one on such a grand scale that the ripples were felt even here. And caught in the middle of it was one of their own, Istimaethoriel’s First, Venara Isena. 

Ciaran knew little about the First’s mission. She had simply disappeared one day on an errand of urgency and secrecy, travelling into human lands far away from Clan Lavellan. He had felt a prick of jealousy—why should she go, when someone like him needed a mission of importance to complete his vir himalen? He hadn’t spoken very often to Venara, but when he had, she seemed like every other battlemage in Clan Lavellan’s ranks: proud and arrogant. Istimaethoriel always favoured mages. They were privy to knowledge kept hidden from hunters and craftsmen and ordinary folk. It went to their heads. 

One thing was certain: the First was compromised by this cataclysmic event, turned into some kind of herald by the humans who held her captive, and even Istimaethoriel was uncertain if the clan should rescue her. 

Ciaran made his decision. If he was to earn his vallaslin before the season was out, he needed a quest worthy of him and his clan. Rescuing the First, wherever she happened to be, seemed like a choice. He would return to the clan a hero and protector, worthy of the blessing of Mythal herself. 

He had left the clan that evening, slipping away in the darkness. He took no halla or hart—the clan’s halla keeper would know if one was missing and would send hunters out after him in a heartbeat. It would be a long journey by foot and there would be many dangers to traverse, but he would make it. 

He had to. 

Ciaran growled as he pushed his way through the dense underbrush of the mountain forest. He had lost count of how many weeks he had travelled. Nor did he quite know where he was, though he refused to admit he was lost. As soon as he had passed the borders of the clan’s traditional grounds, the world had become unrecognizable. But he knew one thing for certain: Ferelden was south. All he had to do was keep walking south and he would eventually find the Waking Sea and, beyond that, the First. 

He had to be close. He had not seen hide nor hair of a living person since leaving the clan. He felt a small tick of annoyance that Istimaethoriel had sent no hunters after him, but perhaps that meant he had simply evaded them. 

The underbrush suddenly gave way and Ciaran yelped as he fell. Branches and thorns scraped his exposed skin as he tumbled forwards down a sharp incline into a clearing. He landed hard on his rear, pain shooting up his spine. Groaning, he brushed his cheek with an open palm, blood staining his skin. Swearing under his breath, Ciaran gingerly got to his feet and looked about. 

His eyes widened in amazement. 

The clearing wasn’t a clearing—it was a ruin. An elven ruin. Beneath the grass were marble tiles, worn and stained. Arches and pillars, cracked with age and covered with ivy, rose to heights that rivalled trees. A set of chipped steps wound their way out of the overgrowth to a gilded dais, the threshold guarded by a set of stone statues in the shape of a robed woman with dragon wings. A large ornate mirror, its dark grey glass shimmering strangely, stood in the centre. Behind the dais was a preserved, golden mural depicting an elven goddess, glowing in the setting sun. 

Mythal. 

Ciaran exhaled softly, mouth agape. He was in a temple dedicated to Mythal. The very goddess whose vallaslin he wished to receive. 

He had seen ruins before, but nothing quite like this. He had never visited any sanctified places when travelling with the clan; such ruins were for keepers and hahrens only. Ciaran’s eyes darted to the mirror as he slowly walked towards the steps. It was majestic, beautifully crafted and positioned in a place of great authority. It had to have held some kind of importance to the ancient elves, but Ciaran could not fathom what. 

It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look, would it? After all, who knew if he would ever be able to find this place again. He was probably the only person to visit it in thousands of years. 

Ciaran placed a foot on the first step, hand resting cautiously on the banister, the blood on his palm sticking to the weathered marble. He took another step. 

The mirror burst open with light and sound. 

Ciaran dove off the steps and throwing himself into the nearby overgrowth. From his hiding place, he watched in shock as blue light transformed the mirror’s glass, spiralling and pulsating with magic. A shadow appeared deep within the light, growing larger and larger until it took the form of a person. Moments later, a woman stepped out of the mirror, swathed in blue light. 

She was clothed in black scouting clothing, a hood drawn over her head and a dark scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth. A set of glittering daggers swung from her hips and a pack was slung around her shoulders. Despite being unable to see her ears, Ciaran guessed she was elven. Her feet were bare and she made little noise as she moved. She passed a hand in front of the mirror and the blue light faded, its surface becoming glass once more. The scout clasped her hands behind her back and waited, chin tilted upwards, her eyes on the sky. 

Ciaran barely dared to breathe. 

An ear-piercing shriek shattered the sky. Ciaran slammed his hands around his ears, his heart thundering in his chest. A shadow passed in front of the sun, plunging the ruin into darkness as a gust of sudden wind blew through the clearing. The scout on the dais was unmoved, more stonelike than the statues surrounding her. The terrifying call resounded again and Ciaran’s jaw dropped as a dragon circled down from the sky, landing mere feet away from him. Its tail lashed out, passing through the overgrowth and missing him by inches. Ciaran pushed himself out of the way, falling backwards into a dark corner between two arches. 

The scout nodded to the dragon. 

The dragon lowered its head, its form shimmering with magic, dissolving in a burst of white light. Ciaran’s eyes widened as the dragon transformed into a woman. A human woman. Though considering she had just transformed from a dragon, he doubted how human she was. 

She was tall and old, majesty clinging to her like a scent. Her robes were constructed leather, dyed a deep burgundy, and adorned with ravens’ feathers. Her white hair was pulled back from her face, crowned with a silver diadem. Her yellow eyes pierced everything she looked at and there was an ancient elegance to her movements. Whoever this woman was, she radiated power of kind Ciaran could not fathom. 

“Did you find it?” the woman asked. 

The scout bowed. “Yes.” 

“And my grandson?” 

“Still at the Orlesian court. With his mother, madam.” 

The dragon woman laughed, harsh and coarse. “Don’t bother calling me such things. I am no more a ‘madam’ than you are a countess.” 

The scout nodded. 

“Enough of that. Let us continue. Hand it to me.” 

The woman held out a gauntleted hand, fingers spread wide. Ciaran couldn’t help but think they resembled dragon claws. He watched as the scout slipped the sack off her shoulder and pulled out an object from within. It was wrapped in black cloth and she carefully unwound it, tossing it away. 

Ciaran frowned. The cloth had protected an orb, large and black and glossy, with circular marks carved around its surface. The scout placed the orb reverently into the dragon woman’s hand. It sparked, green light glowing deep within. Ciaran leaned forwards, peering through the overgrowth for a better look. 

The woman’s head jerked to the side, her yellow eyes staring directly at Ciaran’s hiding place. “I’m surprised, Mithari,” she said. “I expected better from you.” 

“…madam?” The scout sounded nervous. 

“We are not alone,” the woman said, indicating Ciaran’s bloody handprint on the banister. She turned and strode directly into the overgrowth by the arches. 

Ciaran backed up, but his back pressed against cold stone and there was nowhere else to go. A shadow loomed over him and he looked up directly into the dragon woman’s yellow eyes. 

“One of the elvhen, I see,” the woman said. “Far from his clan. Separated, perhaps. Who knows the story? Better yet, who cares for it?” She chuckled. “Come out, boy, there is nothing to fear.” 

Ciaran slowly got to his feet. “Who are you?” he asked. 

“A fair question,” the woman said. “There’s one better yet—who are we all?” She glanced at him, taking in his bare face. “Where are you from, boy? Come on. Speak. Mithari won’t bite.” 

The scout lowered her eyes. 

“I make no promises for myself,” the woman added, chuckling still, her laughter maddening. 

Ciaran wanted to run, to get away from this ruin and this strange mage as fast as possible, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Whether it was from fear or magic, he could not tell.   

“Clan Lavellan,” he mumbled. 

“That is some distance, yes,” the woman said. “Why have you come here, so close to Kirkwall?” 

So he had made it to the Waking Sea. Almost. 

Ciaran stared at the ground. “I’m going to Ferelden. To find someone. Rescue her.” 

“I see. And is this person so unimportant that your clan would willingly let an untested youth attempt a rescue?” 

_“I_ chose to go,” Ciaran snapped, finding strength from his aggravation at being called an _untested youth._ “Of my own volition. The hahrens had no part in it.” 

“Brave boy,” the woman said. “It takes boldness to defy your elders and brave the wilds. But in doing so, you must accept the follies that come with such a decision. The wilds are kind to very few.” 

She gently touched the side of Ciaran’s face. Though it was an oddly motherly gesture, her guanteled hand burned. Ciaran inhaled sharply and backed away. He glanced at the sky and saw the glimmer of green light. His stomach twisted. 

_Mythal will protect me,_ he thought. _She will keep me from harm._  

“What is happening now in Ferelden will alter the course of history,” the woman said, her fingers tightening around the orb. Its magic pulsated within its dark surface. “The world is about to change, a change a long time in the making. How unfortunate you will not live to see it.” 

Ciaran’s mouth went dry. “What?” 

The woman swept away up the stairs, illuminated by the orb’s glow. “You bore witness to an exchange of which no one should know,” she said. “It was by no fault of your own. You were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She reached the dais and ran a hand along the mirror’s edge. “But secrecy is more important than a single soul, even if that soul is of the people. I will return your body to your clan for burial. Take comfort in that.” 

Despite his shaking limbs, Ciaran tore himself from the ruin and ran, sprinting for the forest. He would not die in this temple. He would not let this mad woman kill him. 

Light burst behind him and he heard the terrible creature’s roar. He heard the powerful flap of wings, the thud a heavy, scaly tail on the ground. He didn’t dare look back. He kept running, sweat dripping from his forehead, heart pounding in his throat, bile in his mouth. He was almost at the clearing’s edge. 

The dragon tail hit him squarely in the back. 

Ciaran flew through the air, crashed into a tree and slumped down into the dirt, bones crushed. Bright spots flooded his vision as mind-numbing pain flooded his senses. He couldn’t move couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. He heard the dragon moving through the ruin, its foodsteps cracking like thunder. 

He was dying. 

He blinked, his vision woozy, and saw the black-clad scout activate the mirror. As she disappeared into the hazy blue glow, Ciaran wondered where she was going and what lay in the realm beyond. 

His eyelids flickered. 

He had failed. Who was going to rescue the First now? She would remain with the humans forever, no longer Dalish… 

Cold, sharp claws wrapped around his broken body. Ciaran felt the vague sensation of being lifted into the air, a cool breeze blowing against his cheeks. 

The woman was true to her word. She was taking him home, to kin and clan… 

_Home…_

A small smile crossed Ciaran’s face as the thunderous flap of dragon’s wings sung him into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES**  
>  **Vhellal** \-- Council or meeting of significant important, one for Keepers and hahrens only  
>  **Da’vial** \-- Youth  
>  **Vir himalen** \-- “the path of growth”/“the path of coming of age”. Ritual quest the youth of Clan Lavellan must complete in order to prove they are ready for adulthood and gain their vallaslin


	2. Breach

# BOOK I:  
From the Ashes

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO  
Breach**

The Breach was closed. 

It had been two months since the world had nearly died, swallowed by the Fade. Two months of agonizing work, protecting the neighbouring countryside from demons while pleading the Inquisition’s case to mages and templars and anyone who would listen. All of that effort had led to this moment—the tear in the Veil sealed, the threat subdued. But still, the sky remained scarred. 

Venara Isena, First of Clan Lavellan, Herald of a foreign god, wanted to know why. 

She sat on a stone wall that ran the perimeter of Haven’s Chantry, one knee pulled into her chest, her other leg swinging freely. Her long, dark brown hair, braided back from her forehead and knotted in the back, curled over her shoulder. A thick blanket of snow had fallen earlier that day and she had cleared it off before sitting down, dumping it onto the snowy ground. Though such cold temperatures were unfamiliar to her (her clan traversed the upper reaches of the Free Marches and rarely saw snow), she rather enjoyed them. There was something calming about the ice and the cold.   

Snow was falling again, the flakes floating gently down in spirals. Venara held out a hand, catching a large, fluffy snowflake on the tip of her index finger. She watched as it began to melt, dampness spreading across the leather tips of her gloves. Then she summoned her magic and blew a puff of icy air across her finger. The melted snowflake reformed, its crystalline form shining in the blue light of her magic. It blew away on her breath, tumbling down and down until it hit the ground. 

“Very pretty,” a voice said behind her. 

“It’s just snow,” Venara said, glancing over her shoulder at Varric Tethras. The dwarf was wrapped in a heavy red coat and scarf to protect against the cold. For once his abundant chest hair was not on display. 

“Doesn’t mean it’s not pretty,” Varric said, folding his arms. He didn’t move closer, choosing instead of remain on the trampled trail that lead back to Haven’s centre. The snow was deep off the path, too deep to be comfortable for his short, stocky frame. “The world needs more pretty things, all things considered.” He glanced up at the Breach. “You’re not joining the celebrations?” 

Venara pulled her knee closer into her chest. She was still dressed in her Inquisition mail and plate armour. It was the standard field agent uniform—steel worked with a heavy dark blue fabric imprinted with the Inquisition symbol. Thick black gloves and heavy black boots protected the hands and feet. Josephine Montilyet—part ambassador, part administrator, and very keen on the power of appearances—had wanted Harritt to craft Venara something more specific that relayed her status as Herald of Andraste. Venara had disagreed. If she was to be part of the Inquisition, then she would do so on the same terms as any other agent. She bore the mark that could end the Breach’s devastation, but she did not command the Inquisition. She did not have the right, nor did she want it. 

“No,” Venara said. “It doesn’t feel… right.” 

“‘Doesn’t feel right?’” Varric shook his head. “You closed the Breach today. That’s a victory and a half better than anything else we’ve managed to accomplish in the past two months—” 

“It’s not over,” Venara interrupted. “Not with that _thing_ up there staring at us.” 

Varric cocked his head to the side as he looked up. “Yeah… I don’t think that can be fixed. I don’t know much about magic, but something tells me that might be permanent damage.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Venara said. “We’re missing something. Who caused this? Why did the Conclave explode? Something happened that day, someone is behind this and we still don’t know who, or what, it is.” 

“Sure we do,” Varric said. “The Elder One.” 

“That’s _not_ helpful.” 

“I know. That’s the problem with titles. Elder One, Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Kirkwall, Herald of Andraste—they’re all terrible at telling you anything relevant.” Varric shuddered and pulled his coat tighter. “Have I mentioned that I hate snow?” 

“You just said it was pretty,” Venara pointed out. 

“That doesn’t mean I like being stuck in it.” Varric sighed. “Look, this isn’t a problem that can be fixed by staring at the sky until the answer comes to you.” 

“Maybe it can,” Venara said. “If I could just remember.” 

“If it hasn’t magically jaunted your memory by now, then it probably never will,” Varric said. “Cassandra and Leliana haven’t forgotten that our enemy is still out there. We’ve fixed one problem, but there are bigger, badder beasts on the horizon. There’s nothing more you can do tonight, Herald. You should get some rest. Put it aside for the night, have a drink, relax. You’re going to need it in the days to come. Like you said, this isn’t over.” 

Varric turned and stomped through the snow, back towards the village. “Tavern’s over that way,” he called, pointing to the one building alight with candles and lanterns. “In case you’ve forgotten.” 

“Thanks,” Venara shouted back. “I think I can manage.” 

She turned back to her lonely lookout, tilting her head back and staring at the sky. It was a cloudless night, the stars and moon bright. Music drifted through the night air from the tavern. She could hear indistinct laughter and chatter. For the first time in months, Haven had found happiness. There were no demons to fight, no soldiers to heal, no deaths to mourn. They had every reason to celebrate. 

_Varric’s right,_ Venara thought. _You should go. Just go. Go join them._

But she couldn’t. She was trapped on that wall, staring at the Breach, her mind preoccupied as others gorged themselves on food and drink and company. She clenched her left fist, a streak of green magic running from her palm and down her arm, the mark flaring to life. It stung—it almost always hurt whenever its magic flared—but she was used to the pain by now, especially when it didn’t stay long. 

“What are you doing?” she murmured, staring at her hand and flexing her fingers. Green magic spiraled around them. “What does this mean? There are no rifts nearby, so what are you reacting to?” 

The mark burst with light, then faded to nothing. The pain subsided immediately. 

_That’s what you get for trying to talk to a magical mark, felasil_.  

Venara sighed and pushed herself off the stone wall. She landed in the snow, sinking in past her knees. She cursed under her breath, wishing for the ten thousandth time that she was taller. She waded through the snow, pulling herself up onto the path and then headed back towards the warm glow of Haven’s ramshackle buildings. 

As she trod down the path, she passed a village in celebration. The tavern was full, its patrons spilling out onto the well-trodden paths that crisscrossed the village. Bonfires had been lit, the roaring flames keeping everyone warm in the freshly fallen snow. Merchants, farmers, tailors, cobblers—they were all out of their homes, sharing a drink, dancing to lively music in the bright warmth of the fires. Inquisition agents, identifiable by their armour, sat in clumps, drinking and snorting with laughter, sharing a raucous story or two. Mages in thick robes and heavy furs stood around a bonfire, warming their hands, smiling at their good fortune. A few villagers hung by, listening to their tales of magic and intrigue in the Circles before the Mage-Templar War ignited. For their aid in closing the Breach, the mages had been rewarded with newfound respect. 

Venara couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last. 

The alliance with Grand Enchanter Fiona and her mages had not been a popular choice. Cassandra Pentaghast had nearly verbally torn Venara’s ear off when she found out what she had offered them without sanction. Several Grand Clerics from across southern Thedas sent strongly worded letters of their disapproval, citing the alliance as further proof of the Inquisition’s rogue nature. 

_This is what happens when you raise a mage to a position far beyond her worth,_ one Grand Cleric wrote. _And a Dalish mage at that. The Dalish have no understanding of the delicacies involved in the nations of the Thedas, and thus they have no business_ dictating _the delicate future of the nations of Thedas._

Cassandra had promptly shredded the letter and thrown it in the fire. “It was your choice, Herald,” she had said afterwards. “And it is done now. I may not agree with it, but I will stand by it.” 

Cassandra, it appeared, was the only one true to her word. Even now, as Venara walked through Haven, she saw the few templars who had joined the Inquisition’s cause keeping a careful eye on the mages from the shadows. Even Cullen Rutherford, their Commander and an ex-templar himself, was uncomfortable with their presence.      

_Some habits die hard,_ Venara thought. 

“I don’t know where he is, Charter—” 

“He should have reported in half an hour ago! Blast it all—” 

“Should I inform Sister Leliana?” 

“No. Not yet. For all we know he got distracted by some barmaid’s bodice. We’ll wait.” 

The conversation faded as Venara pushed her way through the crowd, her eyes scanning the multitude of faces for someone familiar. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Exhausted as she was, a part of her wanted to sleep. But she also wanted the comforting familiarity of someone who knew the full extent of what the Inquisition was attempting to do, who was well aware of the challenges that lay ahead. 

Venara changed directions mid-stride. Instead of heading to her cabin, she wheeled around and set off towards the tavern. She pushed past the crowd loitering by the door (from what she could see through the gaps between people, Sera was dancing on the table), and took a sharp turn up the set of steps that led to the healers’ cabins. 

Solas stood outside his hut, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the landscape beyond Haven’s walls. The lamps were lit and he stood half in light, half in shadow, his expression unreadable. Unlike so many others, he had forgone a coat or a cloak and was standing in the snow in his threadbare tunic and leggings. Venara distinctly remembered Josephine offering to get him something more appropriate (or, at least, better made), but he had firmly turned her down. He didn’t need anything excessive, instead reveling in simplicity. 

“You’re not cold,” she said, climbing up the last few steps to greet him. 

“I have other methods of staying warm,” Solas said, his breath rising in the air. “As do you.” 

Venara shook her head. “No,” she said as she came to stand beside him. “Fire magic and I do _not_ get along.” 

“I’m not speaking of fire magic,” Solas said. 

“Mhm?” Venara replied. “Are you suggesting something else?” 

He chuckled, glancing down at her. “What do you think I’m suggesting?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Venara said. “Some strange school of ancient magic no one else has ever heard of or studied that you discovered one lofty night while wandering the Fade.” 

“Ah! Then my secret is out, it would seem.” 

“It wasn’t really a secret, Solas. The Fade is the answer for everything when it comes to you. You’ve been very transparent in that regard.” 

“...I believe you are correct.” 

Venara smiled and wrapped her arms around her for warmth. She enjoyed Solas’ company. Though many things about the tall elf were still a mystery, he was the one person she had met since the Conclave explosion who was profoundly pragmatic about the world-threatening situation. Something magical had gone devastatingly wrong, and instead of losing his head, he was unfalteringly working towards a solution. When he failed, he tried again. 

“Varric hasn’t pestered you into joining in on the celebrations yet, has he?” Venara said. 

“What is there to celebrate?” Solas replied. “Our work remains unfinished. The Breach may be sealed, the heavens may be calm for now, but that does not mean they will not pose a danger in the future.” 

“I know.” 

“Has Cassandra told you that there are still reports of remaining rifts as far flung as western Orlais?” Solas continued. “They will need to be sealed before the Veil can fully heal.” 

“It’s a shame this can’t be replicated,” Venara said, raising her left hand and clenching her fingers into a fist. “Then I don’t have to be the only one running around the countryside.” 

Solas’ eyes narrowed. “Attempting to replicate magic of that intensity would only result in more… foolishness.” 

“I wasn’t being serious, Solas,” Venara said softly. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone else.” She let her hand drop.   

He frowned. “Does it hurt?” 

“Yes. Sometimes.” 

“May I look?” 

Venara peeled off her glove and extended her hand to him. He took it gently, his long fingers turning it over so it was palm up. When the magic was unflared, there was nothing on her skin to indicate that it was marked. Or at least that was what Venara thought. Solas was the one who had originally contained the magic, keeping her alive until her body healed and she awoke in the cells beneath the Chantry. He knew more of the mark than she did. 

_Never deal in magic you do not know._  

Keeper Istimaethoriel’s words echoed in her mind. She would probably be ashamed that Venara had not done all that she could to understand the extent and limitations of the mark. 

Solas rubbed his thumb over the centre of her palm. Suddenly, green light burst from her hand, engulfing her arm in magic. Venara winced and gasped through gritted teeth as pain flared deep within the muscle and bone. 

“I’m sorry,” Solas said, passing his hand over her palm. A warm blue light tangled between his fingers as he cast a containment spell over the mark. “I did not intend to hurt you.” 

“It’s fine,” Venara said as the pain ebbed away. “I’m all right.” 

“Let me know if it worsens,” Solas said. “I do not know what it will do to you in the long term.” 

“I don’t think anyone knows that,” Venara pointed out. 

Solas raised an eyebrow. “You are surprisingly accepting of that fact.” 

Venara shrugged. “What do you want me to do?” she said. “I don’t see the point in weeping and wailing at something that I can’t control. It’s a waste of time, a waste of energy, and only serves to make me feel pathetic about myself.” She paused. “But this is magic. Even if we don’t understand it now, doesn’t mean that we can’t understand it in the future. Magic has purpose, magic has a system. It’s a puzzle, but a puzzle can be solved.” 

“And what of the puzzle of the Elder One?” Solas said. 

A shiver ran down her spine. What indeed. There were so many unsolved questions, and most of them began and ended with the Elder One. 

“I don’t know,” Venara murmured. “All we have is circumstantial evidence. Dorian and I escaped before he— _it_ —could arrive.” 

“Then tell me again what you saw.” 

“Solas, I would rather not—” 

He looked at her, blue-grey eyes piercing. For a moment, he towered over her, his expression solemn and intense, a shadow on his face. “Tell me again. I must hear it.” 

Venara nodded. 

The incident at Redcliffe was one she would like to forget, but was forever burned into her memory. A fortnight ago, during the Inquisition’s attempt to win back the rebel mages from their indentured servitude to Gereon Alexius, a Tevinter magister, Venara had been thrown into a future timeline by uncontrolled time magic. There, she and Dorian Pavus had witnessed a world in ruin: the Inquisition had been overrun, red lyrium grew from people locked in cages, and the Fade had come crashing through the Veil. Very few people remained, and those who did were tortured and corrupted and left to die. A future version of Solas had been among them. Only by re-working the spell had Venara and Dorian been able to escape and return to their proper time, but not before they caught a glimpse of the cause of this despicable future. 

“And so the Elder One assassinated Empress Celene and swept through the ensuing chaos with a demon army,” Solas said. “The question is _how_.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You didn’t think to ask?” 

“We were a little distracted by trying not to die,” Venara said flatly. “And besides, even if we did know the specifics, wouldn’t the act of _knowing_ the specifics change the course of events? We know enough to counter the Elder One when he acts, which means that the future we saw is moot. It will be a different future now simply because we saw it.” 

“You’ve thought about this a great deal,” Solas said. 

“Not really,” Venara said. “Those are Dorian’s theories. He’s the one who is interested in the impossible. Personally, theories involving paradoxes make my head hurt. I prefer something a little more… concrete.” 

Beyond Haven’s walls, Venara thought she saw a light flare far in the distance. But the moment she looked closer, it was gone. She frowned. 

“There must have been some kind of sign, some kind of evidence pointing towards the identity of the Elder One,” Solas said. 

“Not that I remember,” Venara replied. “Unless you call general ruin and red lyrium and green sky a sign.” 

Solas paused, eyes narrowed. “It could be.” 

“So this means something to you,” Venara said. “What?” 

“That I,” Solas replied, “like you, are merely trying to put together the pieces.” 

Venara put a hand on her hip. “You are a very frustrating person sometimes. You know that, right?” 

“I have been made aware of that fact, yes,” Solas said. “What of my future self? Did he see the Elder One? How did he speak of him? How did they all speak of him?” 

Venara paused. “…Like a god.” 

Deep bells sounded, their clanging echoing across the valley. Venara glanced up at Solas, eyes wide. She had never heard the bells before, but she knew exactly what they meant. She looked back at the horizon—it was alight with torches, the unmistakable sound of marching soldiers resounding through the valley.   

_“Veltassan,”_ she swore. 

They were under attack. 

So much for rest. 

Venara darted forwards, sprinting down the steps and rounding the corner to pass the tavern, Solas behind her. The celebrations had come to an abrupt stop and chaos had now consumed the village. People ran to and fro, confusion and fear on their faces. Venara saw a soldier who had drunk too much vomit into the bushes, overcome by anxiety. A stable hand burst into tears while at her side, a Chantry sister dropped to her knees and began to pray.   

Cullen stood at the top of the stairs, yelling at the top of his lungs, rallying his intoxicated troops as fast as he could. 

_“Forces approaching! To arms, to arms!”_

Venara whirled around, trying to remember where she had put her staff when Varric barreled into her, nearly knocking her flat. He had done away with his oversized coat and scarf and was hefting his crossbow. From the looks of it, he had not had time to put on armour and stood, grounded, in the whirling snow, a severe look etched into his face. 

“Do you know who’s attacking?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Venara replied. “But we need to find out. Now.” 

Soldiers ran back and forth, swordsmen drawing their weapons, archers scrambling to their positions near the trebuchets. As Venara watched, it suddenly struck her that the wooden infrastructure was terribly flimsy for a siege. 

“Someone arm and ready those trebuchets!” one of Cullen’s subordinates shouted. “We’re gonna need those! _And barricade that gate!”_  

There were too many people, too many civilians in the streets. Their screams, their cries, their wails—Venara couldn’t blame them for being afraid. They could hear the massive army getting closer, the torchlight igniting the forest beyond the lake. They were unprepared, virtually defenseless. 

This was going to be a massacre. 

“GET THAT GATE CLOSED NOW!” Cullen roared, leaping further down the stairs. 

A stream of civilians from outside the village—anyone who had not been participating in the celebrations—were flooding towards the gate. Beyond the open gate, she could see the dark mass of an army swelling over the mountain. Several dozen soldiers in dark armour and bearing torches were sprinting across the lake, barreling towards the gate. 

“GET IT CLOSED, GET IT CLOSED NOW!” 

A soldier smacked into Venara as he rushed to help barricade the gate. Winded and cursing, Venara rushed to the stairs leading up to the Chantry and jumped on the stone baluster. She looked around at the confused flood of civilians, just as Cullen slammed the gate shut and began to barricade it. Elevated over the crowd, Venara shot her hand into the air and released a spark of storm magic. The violet light crackled and flashed through the air, drawing immediate attention. 

“If you are a civilian,” she shouted, “get inside the Chantry— _now!”_  

She caught sight of the hulking form of the Iron Bull and his mercenary crew. Leaping off the baluster, Venara cast a Fade step, her form flickering with icy-blue magic as she shot forwards through space. She arrived at Bull’s side, skidding to a halt on her the tips of her toes. “Bull,” she said. “I need you to protect the civilians. I don’t know what we’re up against yet, but if _anything_ gets through the Chantry doors, _take it down.”_  

“Yes, Boss,” Bull replied. “Hey, do you—” 

But Venara was already gone, her form sailing through the crowd on her magic, searching for the specialists who had joined their cause over the past two months. It was time to put their individual talents to the test. 

She found Vivienne de Fer, Court Enchanter to Empress Celene, in the Chantry, already setting up magical barriers on the doors and windows. Warden Blackwall was assisting the foot soldiers set up barricades throughout the village, anything to slow the looming force down. Sera had clambered up onto the roof of the tavern, finding a secure vantage point from which she oversaw the confusion, her bow at the ready.  

The marching was getting closer. 

Stopping to catch her breath at the edge of the stairs, Venara felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. She looked behind her. 

“I thought you’d be needing this,” Dorian said, passing Venara her staff. 

Venara took it, feeling the weapon’s energy course through her as soon as her fingers curled around it. The oak staff had been with her for years. It was well-worn, but well-crafted, enchanted by Keeper Istimaethoriel to conduct storm magic. At Harrit’s insistence, Venara had recently added a deadly-looking blade to the end should any demon or bandit or rogue templar get too close. 

“Thanks,” she said. 

Varric jogged over to them. “You’re a difficult person to keep up with,” he said, panting. “You do realize that, don’t you? Flitting from one place to the next—” 

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy there?” Dorian said. 

“Jealousy?” Varric chuckled. “No. Why would I ever be jealous of a mage? Some of my best friends are mages.” He cast an eye towards the gate. In the light of the sealed Breach, they could see the dark mass of clouds gathering on the horizon beyond. “We should hurry.” 

“Agreed,” Solas said. 

They took off through the chaos. As she ran, Venara saw Seggrit struggling to gather up all of his goods and drag them with him to the Chantry. A soldier bashed into his table, sending arms and armour cascading. Seggrit yelped and dove into the snow, feeling around to dig up as many of his lost merchandise as possible. 

People were running to and fro, though there were two steady streams, civilians to the Chantry and soldiers and mages to the wall. Venara and her companions ran down the stairs towards the gate. A hair-raising screech echoed across the night sky. Venara wasn’t entirely sure if it was her imagination or not, but she didn’t have time to stop and ask if anyone else heard it. 

They reached the gate, panting and sweaty. It had been shut and barricaded. From beyond the gate, the could hear the unmistakable sounds of dying screams echoing across the lake. Venara’s stomach twisted. 

“You shut the gate on them!” Josephine shouted in Cullen’s face. Her hair was coming undone, black strands curling around her face. She was pale and shaking with anger.   

_“I had no choice!”_ Cullen yelled. “We need to defend Haven, and that defense starts with this gate!” 

“You left our people to die out there. Stable hands, farmers, smiths, cobblers—” 

“This wasn’t a choice I made easily, Josephine. The gate _had_ to be closed!” 

“You could have waited! You could have waited another minute—” 

“And that minute could have been the difference between survival and defeat,” Cullen snapped. “This is _war_ , Josephine. True war. We’re no longer playing at it.” 

Josephine held her ground, raising her chin. “You do not have the right,” she said coldly.

 “Do you want the Inquisition to survive this night or not?” 

Josephine opened her mouth to retort, but Leliana caught her arm and drew her back. Cassandra lowered her eyes, not looking at either of them. Her sword was drawn and her stance was firm and grounded, as if she was about to hold the line entirely by herself. 

“Cullen!” Venara shouted as she arrived. “What’s going on? Who’s attacking?” 

“A massive force,” Cullen said. “Only one watchguard reported, and by the time he saw it, he could barely give us a warning.” 

“A warning,” Josephine echoed, glaring at Cullen. 

“Whether we had forewarning or not hardly matters now,” Cassandra interrupted. “Either way, we have an army on our doorstep.” 

“And who are they?” Venara asked. 

“We don’t know,” Cullen replied. “They fly no banners.” 

_The Elder One,_ Venara thought. _He’s here. He didn’t like our interference in Redcliffe and now he’s finally chosen to show himself._  

She heard the screech again. She glanced at Solas, making eye contact and this time she knew she was not imagining things. He had heard it to. Something was coming. Something big. 

The mark flared to life. Venara glanced at her hand. It was trailing green magic, pain searing her palm. She grit her teeth and ignored it. 

“We can survive this,” she said. “Whatever it is, we’re going to survive this—” 

Something banged against the gate. Collectively, they took a step back, heads turning to the barricade. 

Cullen drew his sword and lowered it at the gate. “Leliana, get Josephine back inside the Chantry,” he said. “The rest of you… Whatever comes through that gate—and it _will_ come through that gate—strike it down.” 

Leliana grabbed the still shocked Josephine and pulled her back up the stairs towards the Chantry. Venara watched them go, then turned back to the gate. She pointed her staff at it and laced the threshold with a series of ice glyphs. Whatever stepped foot upon them would be freeze on contact. 

Whatever it was banged against the gate again. 

“For Maker’s sake, would you open the damn gate?!” a woman’s voice shouted. “You’ll kill us all if you don’t let us in!” 

_Us all?_  

Who was out there? 

Venara stepped forwards, cancelling the glyphs. She had reached the barrier when Cassandra pulled her back. 

“Don’t!” she shouted. “You don’t know who is on the other side.” 

“No, I don’t,” Venara said. “But I have a feeling it’s not the Elder One.” 

Before anyone else could stop her, Venara tore down the barricade and pushed the gate open. She slid through the threshold and Fade-stepped down the hill, Cullen and Cassandra on her heels, Solas, Dorian and Varric not far behind them. Outside the gate, the valley was a massacre. Bloody bodies lay strewn across the ice and snow, crushed by magical forces, stabbed with blades and shot with arrows. Some of them were unprotected villagers, the people who hadn’t made it to the gate in time, but others were soldiers in unfamiliar armour. 

What remained of the survivors stumbled out of the woods, clutching their wounds as they limped towards the safety of the gate. Venara didn’t have to look far to find the person responsible for their rescue. Crouched in the centre, surrounded by a circle of corpses and covered in blood, was a woman in rusted armour. She clutched a staff and an aura of magical energy hung heavily around her. Slowly, she raised her head, her tongue licking blood off of her split lip, and brushed her red hair out of her face. 

“Well now,” she said, rising to her feet. “That wasn’t so hard.” 

“Who are you?” Venara demanded. 

“Oh, dear Maker, _now_ is the time you choose to show up?” Cassandra said furiously as she and the others caught up with Venara. Her eyes raked over the woman, smoldering with anger. She rounded on Varric, who looked strangely and utterly speechless. “You _said_ she was gone! You _said_ she was missing!”

“Well, she’s here now!” Varric’s gloved hand clenched around his crossbow grip. “So it’s a moot point, isn’t it?” 

“Hardly! Not when you’ve been a secretive, lying—” 

“Oh, by Andraste’s flaming arse, is that all you can think about when there’s an army a thousand strong on my tail?” The woman’s eyes flashed dangerously and Cassandra fell silent. She turned to Venara. “My name is Lorenna Hawke—” 

“Hawke?” Venara said. “As in—” 

“As in _the_ Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric said. 

“I am,” Lorenna said. “Or I was. That’s beside the point.” 

“What are you doing here?” Cullen interrupted. “They said—” 

_“Varric_ said—” Cassandra corrected. 

“—you couldn’t be found,” Cullen finished. 

“I know you love interrogating mages, Cullen, but really, save it for later,” Lorenna said. She glanced at Venara. “I would like to say that I’ve come to rescue you, but that’s really not the case. You’ve got your work cut out for you, Herald. I arrived just in time to cut off their forward patrols—” 

_“Whose_ forward patrols?” Cullen said. 

Lorenna turned and pointed at the ridge overlooking the lake. “The Elder One. An ancient Tevinter magister.” She paused, her lip curling darkly. _“Corypheus.”_  

They stared at the ridge as a giant, towering figure, cloaked in red magic and cowled in black, stepped to the edge of the precipice. It was flanked by two people, a wheat-haired woman in black robes and a dark haired man in misshapen armour. The giant looked down into the valley, and its eyes found Venara. The mark flared, green magic and pain entwined on her palm, as she looked back at the face of her enemy. 

“He’s come for you,” Lorenna finished grimly. “They’ve _all_ come for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven Words and Phrases**  
>  **Felasil** –- idiot  
>  **Veltassan** –- modern Dalish curse word, roughly the equivalent of “fuck”
> 
> I commissioned [@hansaera](http://hansaera.tumblr.com) to illustrate the opening scene of Venara in the snow. [Check out the piece here](http://hansaera.tumblr.com/post/169680699231/venara-lavellan-for-idrelle-miocovani-thank), it's really beautiful!


	3. Under Siege

**CHAPTER THREE  
****Under Siege**  

Venara’s heart hammered in her chest, her fingers clutching at her staff. High above her, the giant gazed down, his ragged face gleaming red in the torchlight.   

“Corypheus?” Varric breathed. _“Here?_ How—Andraste’s ass, what did he do to survive? We killed him Hawke! We killed him!” 

“I know!” Lorenna whirled on him. “And if I had an answer I would tell you, Varric, but I don’t. He’s alive. He has an army. And he’s here. We can deal with all other questions later.” 

The giant turned and disappeared from the precipice, cloaked in red magic. His lieutenants remained for a moment, gazing down at the small group huddled in front of Haven’s gate. 

“I know that man,” Cullen said, his voice cold. “Samson. What is he doing there with that… _thing?”_  

“The templars have turned,” Lorenna said. “They—” 

“For what, Hawke?” Cullen interrupted. “Is the Order’s response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?” 

“In a way,” Lorenna said. “The Templar Order as you know it is no more. They belong to Corypheus. They belong to the red lyrium.” 

Cassandra swore under her breath. 

“Have they lost their minds?” Cullen exclaimed. 

“Was there ever a time when templars haven’t lost their minds?” Lorenna said darkly. 

“Enough,” Venara said, cutting across Cullen as he opened his mouth to respond. “Who’s the woman?” 

“Calpernia,” Lorenna answered. “A Tevinter mage. You may have taken Fiona’s rebel mages out from under Corypheus’ nose, but he still has more than enough at his beck and call. You’ve encountered the Venatori, I presume?” 

“Yes,” Dorian answered. “I would say we are intimately familiar with them.” 

“Good,” Lorenna said. “Calpernia’s their leader. That may give you an idea of her abilities.” 

“Vividly.” 

A million questions raced through Venara’s mind, questions she did not have time for. This woman was Hawke? _The_ Hawke? The one Varric had written about so vividly, spoke of so fondly, yet promised she could not lend them aid? The one Cassandra had searched for in earnest before the Conclave explosion, even going to far as to take Varric hostage in an attempt to find her location? And now she was here, dropped on their doorstep, covered in blood and with an army on her heels. 

_Never mind the how,_ Venara thought. _Focus on the what._  

She glanced at Cullen, trying ignore the shiver of fear running down her spine. “What do we do? There’s more of them—far more of them—than we can counter.” 

Cullen turned sharply and strode back towards the gate. “Haven is no fortress,” he said. “We cannot defend her forever. Her walls _will_ fall. I can hold the gate for as long as I can, but if we are to gain any advantage, we need to control the flow of battle. We need to strike that force with everything we have, weigh them down while we call for a retreat.” He pointed down the path that ran the alongside the stables and the smithy. “There are unmanned trebuchets along that ridge. We need a strike force to reach them, use them, use anything that they can.”

Venara glanced at the mountains, their sides thick with snow. The snow was heavy in the Frostbacks and avalanches were frequent. There had been none near Haven, but if there was a large enough disturbance… 

The snow would fall. 

Directly into the path of the oncoming army. 

“Right,” Venara said. “I’ll go.” 

Lorenna grabbed her arm. “Not alone, you won’t,” she said. “I didn’t come this far to warn you just to watch you die, Herald.” 

“I don’t plan on dying,” Venara said, pulling free from Lorenna’s grasp. “But I welcome the aid.” 

“Then stop wasting time,” Cassandra said, drawing her sword. “If we go, we go _now.”_  

Venara glanced at Solas and he nodded, hefting his staff, a protective spell already conjured in the palm of his hand. She smiled tightly and took off, sprinting down the path as fast as she could, her companions close by. The bells still rung, their sharp peals carrying apprehension with every strike. As she ran, she heard Cullen return to the gate to rally the troops. His voice echoed throughout the valley, cold and crisp in the night air as their small band of soldiers and mages flooded out to stand their ground. 

“Our enemy approaches! Mages, you have sanction to engage them—use whatever magic you must to hold them back.” 

The ring of cold steel and the crackle of magical energy filled the valley. 

“Inquisition! With the Herald! Now—for your lives, for all of us!” 

Venara’s breath felt hot in her mouth as she ran, her eyes scanning the forest around her. The wind howled, its icy voice shrieking through the forest, tearing at tree branches. The green-yellow gloom of the Breach above looked sickly now, as if a disease had infected the sky. Dark clouds rolled in, covering the moon and the stars, leaving nothing but the mark of unnatural magic above. 

The snow began to fall in earnest now.    

_The Elder One. Corypheus. He’s here for you._

Why? What had she done? She was his enemy, but she barely knew why—only veiled hints from a distant future that was hopefully erased forever. 

A stab of pain ran through her hand. It was glowing green.

_Survive this,_ Venara thought, gritting her teeth. _You won’t have your answers if you’re dead._   

She swallowed her growing sense of dread and ran. 

The trebuchets were in a clearing not far from the gate, near the crest of a hill and surrounded by woods. Cassandra had plowed ahead, her armoured boots churning up snow as she ran, her long legs carrying her ahead of the rest. Lorenna was not far behind, overtaking Cassandra further down the trail, the rest of them struggling to catch up. She reached the northern trebuchet first, but slipped in the frozen, muddy slush surrounding it. She slammed into the trebuchet and grabbed its frame for support. 

A moment later an arrow thudded into the wood, striking through Lorenna’s hand and pinning it to the frame. 

“Hawke!” Varric yelled, sprinting down the path into the clearing. 

Venara crested the hill right after him. Cassandra released a warrior’s cry and slid across the snow and ice, grabbing Lorenna by the shoulders and quickly lifting her shield above their heads. A volley of arrows descended in a clump, scattering across the ground. Cassandra grunted as a handful hit her shield, peppering its surface like hail. She held firm against the impact and did not lower her guard until all arrows had fallen. 

“Enemies approaching!” she shouted, raising her sword and leaping forwards. “Be ready!” 

Venara heard them before she saw them. A mass of howling creatures, surging through the forest. She saw flashes of red and steel as they passed through the trees, their armoured footsteps heavy in the ice and snow. Venara raised her staff, violet storm magic crackling at its tip. Beside her, Dorian gestured, his movements elegant and precise, weaving an array of fire glyphs upon the ground. Varric set his crossbow aside and ran to help Lorenna, who was struggling to free herself from the trebuchet’s frame. The arrow that had gone clean through her hand was buried deep in the wood.   

A burst of magic filled Venara’s peripheral vision as Solas cast his protective spell, encasing them all in blue light. 

And then the Elder One’s army thundered forwards. 

They came at once, from all directions—warriors that looked like men, but were not. They wore armour inscribed with the insignia of the Templar Order, but they were the farthest thing from the templars Venara knew. Most wore helmets that disguised their faces, but some were without faceplates. In the dim light, Venara could make out their inflamed skin, the dark veins, thick and plump, crossing their cheeks and foreheads. Something dark and red and oddly crystalline encrusted their jowls, their noses and their foreheads, bursting out of their skin like boils.   

Red lyrium. 

_Oh Creators… what happened to them?_  

Lorenna had said _he_ had corrupted them. Now she knew with what. Whoever these templars had once been, those men and women were long gone.   

A half dozen templars ran into Dorian’s glyphs and immediately burst into flame. He barked a triumphant laugh, following up with another blast, engulfing them in the inferno. The templars cried in pain and panic, clutching at their helmets, ripping them off and falling to their knees, choking on the smoke as their bodies broiled in their armour. 

Venara spun, the acrid smell of Dorian’s magic filling her nostrils as she saw two soldiers pelt towards her, swords raised. She flung herself backwards with magic, her form flitting through the Fade-step, then swept a series of ice glyphs around her with a single hand. Then she slammed her staff into the ground, lightning crackling out of it, striking the closest warrior, then bouncing to the next and the next and the next, paralyzing them. Moments later, all three of them were fell, tumbling into the snow one after another, as powerful bolts pierced their hearts. 

Varric nodded at her, then quickly turned back to the trebuchet, where Lorenna was still struggling with her pinned hand. 

“Get Hawke free!” Cassandra shouted, slamming her shield into another warrior and slicing his throat with her sword. “We need to fire that trebuchet!” 

Varric reached for Lorenna’s hand, but a templar rushed towards them. He turned, aiming his crossbow and fired rapidly, riddling the templar with bolts. 

Lorenna would have to free herself on her own. 

Cassandra bellowed as a small, lithe templar leaped out of know where. Her helmet had been torn free and her limp blonde hair blew free in the wind, whipping around her crusted face. Her back was crusted with more red lyrium growths, bursting from her shoulders and running down her spine. And her hands… 

Her hands and arms had grown into two long, curved blades of red lyrium. 

The templar stabbed at Cassandra’s back, her blow glancing across Cassandra’s armour. Cassandra growled, trying to throw her off, but the woman gripped her forcefully. She reached around with one arm, the sharp angle of the lyrium growth pressing against Cassandra’s throat— 

Venara summoned a ball of ice and shot it into the templar’s back. The templar froze, ice cracking along her lower back and she fell off Cassandra and into the snow. She recovered quickly, flipping back onto her feet and dropping into a low stance, her eyes red and gleaming. She snarled, her dry, cracked lips pulling back to reveal fang-liked teeth— 

And then Cassandra slashed down with her sword, shearing the templar’s head free with one stroke. She rubbed a hand across her throat, her glove coming away wet with blood. If the templar had pressed any harder, she would have cut Cassandra’s throat. 

“Get Hawke free,” she repeated, her voice hoarse as she turned and threw herself into battle once more. 

The snow was falling heavily now, clouding their vision. No matter how many templars they took down, there were always more. Venara fought, falling into a battle trance as she leapt, spun and flitted across the battle field, seeking the places she was needed most. Their small team had spread out in a circle around the trebuchet, protecting Lorenna as she grappled with her pinned hand. No matter how many glyphs Venara and Dorian laid down, no matter how many bolts Varric fired, no matter how many templars Cassandra could hold at once nor how good Solas’ defensive spells were, they could not hold forever. Venara’s keen ears could hear the echo of the battle in the valley, the resounding clash of Cullen’s forces against the main bulk of their enemy. They could not keep them away from Haven’s walls for much longer. 

They had to fire the trebuchet. 

They had to work faster.

Dorian yelled in pain as something sharp and red hit him from a distance, burrowing through Solas’ protective barrier and bringing him to his knees. He collapsed into the snow, breathing heavily, one hand pressed against his side. Venara spun, looking about desperately for his assailant. Behind her, Cassandra was on the offensive, moving quickly on her feet as she pressed back against a templar wielding a massive great axe. If she stopped moving, not even her shield would be able to save her if she was hit. 

Varric fired a bolt, spearing the templar through the shoulder. He snarled in pain and swung his great axe at Cassandra’s head. She ducked, barely dodging the blow. 

On the other side of the clearing, Solas faced the wall of archers that had emerged from the forest, firing volley after volley upon them. He stood still, expression calm, swathed in a barrier, arrows bouncing off of him harmlessly. He twisted his staff expertly in his hands, magic humming as he wove his spell, then a great green light opened and swept the archers off their feet, knocking them against the earth. Solas swept forwards and unleashed a wave of fire that consumed them, his impassive face cold against the bright flames. 

The flames illuminated the crest of a hill beyond the clearing, the light falling across a massive figure standing in the snow. Venara looked up, mouth opened slightly in astonishment. At first glance, the figure appeared to be a very tall man without any armour or shirt to protect his chest. Then Venara realized that he _was_ armour-clad, but his greying skin was so swollen, it had burst through his chest plate. His broad shoulders were speckled with lumps of red lyrium, cylindrical growths bursting out his back. His gauntleted hands were clawed and glowing red. From his palms, a red light grew and grew, cackling dangerously. 

The infected templar drew back his hand and released the light. A flurry of red, shining darts flew free, arcing towards Dorian. 

_“No!”_  

Venara flung herself forwards, gliding through the clearing with her magic. She landed hard, sliding in front of Dorian and falling to one knee. She watching as the darts sped towards her, then closed her eyes, drawing in breath. 

One breath. 

Two breaths. 

Three breaths.   

A sword made of light and magic sprung from her hand. Venara slashed the blade through the air, catching the darts and shattering them upon impact. She could feel the blade’s power draining with every moment, but she threw herself into a sprint and charged up the hill towards the templar. She raised her staff and knocked him in the head with the butt end, disorienting him long enough to freeze his legs with a blast of ice magic. Then she raised her spirit blade and thrust downwards into his chest. The blade passed soundlessly through the templar’s armour and flesh, killing him. 

Wiping sweat from her brow, Venara turned back to the clearing. Fatigue pulled at her arms and legs, but she skidded down the hill, touching Dorian on the shoulder. 

“Are you all right?” she asked. 

“Fine, fine,” he said, getting to his feet. “Thank you. Those darts would have done a number on these robes…” 

Venara glanced at his clothing. “You’re covered in blood.” 

“Oh, look at that,” Dorian said. “So I am. Terrible, terrible, isn’t it?” He conjured a ball of fire in his palm and, before Venara could say anything, slammed it against his side. His lips curled in pain and he let out a shaky gasp before he let his hand drop. “That… should help for the moment.” 

“Why didn’t you heal it?” Venara exclaimed. 

“I’m a necromancer, not a healer,” Dorian said, leaning heavily on his staff. “I’d rather not make my flesh necrotic by accident. Now, where were we?” 

Dorian raised his staff and turned to face rows of infected templars emerging from the woods. Solas and Cassandra were already entangled with them. Solas had dropped his protective barriers over their company long ago—there were too many enemies drawing his attention. He was now solely focused on devastating offensive magic, but even he was struggling. Cassandra threw back templar after templar with her shield, barreling into them before cutting them down with her blade. 

Venara breathed heavily and prepared to launch herself into the fray. 

In the corner of her eye, she saw Varric assisting Lorenna, who was still struggling to pull the arrow free. He reached for Lorenna’s hand, but she clenched her fingers and, biting down on a mouthful of her dirty tunic, she tore her hand, arrow and all, out of the frame. She didn’t even flinch. 

“Break the arrow shaft,” she told Varric, her mouth still full of material. “Get it out.” 

“I’m not taking that out, Hawke, you’ll bleed—” 

_“That’s the point,”_ Lorenna hissed.   

Varric shook his head, but reached for the arrow shaft anyway. He snapped it in two, then, without forewarning, pulled it free from Lorenna’s hand. 

Blood burst forth, streaming down her wrist. 

Lorenna smirked. 

A red mist twisted around her, spinning around and around, drawing its power from her wound. Venara watched in fascinated horror as Lorenna raised her head, her eyes gleaming, her body swathed in magic. She raised her bloody, shattered hand and pushed outwards. An invisible force rolled out from her in a wave, rushing by Venara with such raw strength that it tore at her hair and clothes, nearly pushing her off her feet. It slammed into the ring of templars at the woods’ edge, lifting them into the air and paralyzing them. 

With her good hand, Lorenna slammed her staff into the ground. Primal energy cracked into the air, forking forwards like cracks of lightning, striking each of the paralyzed templars through their armour and infected flesh, stopping their hearts. They dropped to the ground, slamming into the snow, their bodies limp like ragdolls. 

“I think we should fire this trebuchet now,” Lorenna said calmly. 

Then she ducked her head, dropped to her knees and vomited into the snow. 

_Blood magic._  

Venara remained rooted in place, staring at Lorenna as she heaved and coughed. She had never seen blood magic used in such a way. No mage of Clan Lavellan practiced it, and while the Dalish did not frown upon it the way the Chantry did, they were cautious about its use. Tevinter horror stories about blood magic and elven slaves haunted many clans, the wounds still fresh regardless of how many years ago the offenses occurred. 

Cullen was not going to be happy. 

_He won’t have a chance if you’re all dead,_ Venara thought and kicked herself into motion. She dove for the trebuchet’s wheel, straining against its weight as she turned it. The wood groaned, ropes straining as the mechanism bent backwards, moving into position. Venara glanced at the flickering torches in the distance as Corypheus’ horde their descent down the mountain. If they were fighting the advance guard, she didn’t want to see what they would face with the main bulk of his troops. 

An arrow passed dangerously close, clipping the skin on Venara’s hand, drawing blood. She didn’t have time to check where the arrow had come from—Lorenna’s spell must have missed some of the enemies—and so she grit her teeth, pausing only to throw a barrier around herself, and made the final turn.  

Even as the trebuchet released, throwing its projectile into the air, Venara felt the pressure of a blade cracking against her barrier from behind. She had no time to watch the boulder fall; she turned, staff raised and faced her attacker. The templar howled and hissed, slamming the flat of his blade into her side. Though it did not physically harm her, the blow threw her backwards and she landed in the churned snow beside the trebuchet. The templar slammed a foot on Venara’s arm and she felt her barrier weaken. He wrestled with her staff, attempting to pull it from her grip. Venara screamed, drawing back a hand and unleashing a volley of storm magic from her fingertips. The templar ignored the sparks in his face and wrenched her staff free. The threw it aside and slashed his blade upon her, hacking away at her weakening barrier. 

Blood burst, showering Venara’s face as a crossbow bolt sprouted from the templar’s mouth, driven through the back of his skull with great force. He dropped his sword and tumbled forwards, crumpling into the snow. She sat up and saw Varric lower his crossbow. He nodded to her. 

“Thanks,” Venara said, getting up and grabbing her fallen staff. 

“Sorry I didn’t catch him sooner,” he said. 

Lorenna stood shakily behind him, her face very pale. She was covered in blood. From the way she carried herself, Venara suspected she was completely drained of mana. “Keep moving,” she said. “Someone needs to fire that second trebuchet.” 

“What about you?” Venara said. 

Lorenna leaned heavily on her staff. “Varric and I will stay here and prepare for a second volley,” she said.

“You most certainly will not,” Dorian said, sliding in the snow towards them. “Champion or not, you _will_ retreat, Lorenna Hawke. You’re of no more use to us out here.” 

Venara suspected the intensity in Dorian’s voice and the curl of his lip had something to do with Lorenna’s use of blood magic. She expected Lorenna to snap back, but she merely hung her head, exhaustion and pain weighing down every limb. 

“All right,” she said. “But someone should stay here and fire this one again. One shot in the dark doesn’t do much good against an army of thousands.” 

“I will,” Varric said. He glanced down at the templar he had killed. “That’s the last of them, for now. Go while the coast is clear.” 

Lorenna nodded and limped towards Haven, using her staff for support as she navigated the icy path. 

Venara turned to Dorian. “Stay with Varric,” she said. “He’ll need help manning the trebuchet. I’ll go to the southern one with Cassandra and Solas.” 

Dorian nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Hurry,” he said. “Corypheus has slowed us enough as it is.” 

Venara placed a hand on his arm, then ran off towards the woods. She found Cassandra and Solas near the edge, shadowed by the trees and surrounded by the bodies of dead templars. 

“We need to get to the southern trebuchet,” Venara called as she sprinted past them. Solas and Cassandra followed without question. “Lorenna’s returned to Haven—it’s up to us now.” 

“We will not fail,” Cassandra said. Her voice was thin and stretched, hinged with uncertainty. The odds were stacked against them and even Cassandra Pentaghast had to admit there may be no way out. 

They sprinted through the trees, skidding along the path, snow crunching under their boots. Venara sprinted ahead, desperate to reach the trebuchet before Corypheus’ forces did. Lorenna had destroyed most of the advance force, but some had escaped her magic’s reach. If they were lucky, the southern trebuchet would be clear— 

Venara slammed into a wall of energy and fell backwards, blood streaming from her nose. She had been so distracted with her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the telltale thrum or seen the blue-white glimmer. A barrier crafted from ice magic has been erected around the trebuchet, sustained by a group of mages clustered on the other side. They wore the familiar dark robes and triangular-shaped hoods that marked them as Venatori. 

Cassandra yelled and hacked her sword at the barrier, to no avail. 

“Cassandra, stop!” Venara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulder. “It’s no use. That barrier isn’t going to fall to physical strikes, it’s too well maintained! Only magic can unravel it.” 

_“Then unravel it,”_ Cassandra hissed. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Venara saw a projectile launch high into the air, sailing towards the mountain path. It flickered in the night sky, flames licking its sides—Dorian’s idea, no doubt. It struck true, but not high enough to cause the desire effect. Some of the horde would have been crushed, but the trebuchet had barely done enough damage to stop the onslaught. It was facing the wrong direction and Varric and Dorian would not have time to alter its aim. 

They needed the southern trebuchet. It alone pointing in the right direction. 

Venara raised her staff, drawing power to the crystal at the tip, and unleashed a concentrated blast of storm magic. 

The barrier held, dispersing the magic across its surface. 

_Damn it! How do we destroy it? Think, Venara!_  

She had rarely encountered barriers, not before she left her clan, that is. Occasionally an elven or Tevinter ruin would have artifacts hidden behind a powerful barrier and Istimaethoriel would have to judge whether it was worth the effort to retrieve them. She had always been the one to destroy them. 

Venara hissed in frustration. Now was not the time to have to recall specifics of magical theory. 

She threw another cascade of storm magic at the barrier, but it had no effect. 

“Veltassan!” she swore. She could almost feel the Venatori smirking, safe inside their barrier. They were wasting time. Valuable time. Which was probably the purpose of this exercise—they would break through eventually and there were too few Venatori below to stop them, but they _were_ slowing them down, preventing them from mounting a proper defense. 

Venara spat, cursing vibrantly. She felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“Fire,” he said. “We need fire.” 

_Yes. Opposites defeat opposites. Storm and spirit. Ice and… fire._

Fire. 

Damn it. 

Venara clenched her teeth. _Do it anyway, you coward. Find it. Find the power. You can control it._

She closed her eyes, sweaty palms gripping her staff. Blood rushed to her ears and for a moment she couldn’t hear anything but the terrible pounding of her heart. She concentrated, summoning her magic, willing the inferno into existence, directing it towards the barrier… 

An orange light encompassed her staff. It grew and grew, growing stronger, burning brighter, heat wafting from it. Venara took a step forwards, pointing her staff towards the barrier, channeling her magic from her core, through her body, to the staff and out— 

The air exploded. 

Venara, Cassandra and Solas were thrown backwards with such force they landed in a snowbank several feet away from the trebuchet. Venara’s ears rang, deafened, as she sat up, her vision disoriented. There was an acrid taste in her mouth and smoke clung to her like perfume… 

It was only then that she realized that she was on fire. She yelped and rolled onto her stomach, quashing the flames with trampled slush. She pushed herself to her feet and found her staff, which had taken serious damage to the shaft. She looked around, desperately searching for Solas and Cassandra. They were dragging themselves forwards, coughing on black smoke, ash streaked across their faces. 

“Are you _mad?”_ Cassandra yelled. “You could have killed us!” 

“I did what I had to!” Venara shouted back. 

A fireball exploded in her face. 

Venara spun. At least her spell hadn’t been completely useless—despite her lack of control, she _had_ destroyed the Venatori’s barrier. Unfortunately, that meant that she had unleashed the Venatori mages that had been hiding within, and they had used Venara’s dazed confusion to their advantage. 

“Cassandra!” 

Cassandra did not need a warning. She launched herself forwards, shield arm raised, pushing back the flame and ice cast upon her by the mages beyond. The familiar thrum of Solas’ barriers encased Venara and she looked at him gratefully before throwing herself into a Fade step. Her form flickered, passing by Cassandra, and she landed hard, back to the trebuchet. She cast ice glyphs on the ground, whacked an approaching mage in the head with her staff, then fell into a crouch, poised for her next move. 

The mage she had hit with her staff fell backwards, her hood falling free, revealing a dark face and curly black hair. She stood, disoriented, then cast a barrier around herself just as Cassandra reached her. Cassandra’s sword bounced uselessly off of the Venatori’s barrier. Flame encased the mage’s hand and she thrust it into Cassandra’s face. Cassandra howled, stumbling backwards, smoke rising from her burning hair. She brushed sparks and embers from her face, groaning in pain.  

A spike of ice shot through the air. A second Venatori mage had stepped onto Venara’s, freezing him in place. A moment later, there was a flash of green and a magical missile hit him in the chest. He collapsed to the ground, body still. Venara looked uphill and saw Solas, shimmering with the aftereffects of the summoning spell. 

Fire slashed across Venara’s back and she sprang forwards in a Fade step, retreating from her attacker. She turned, throwing violet lightning back at them, but the Venatori caught it in his hand and let it disperse. Beneath the shadow of his hood, Venara could see his grin. 

_This is no battle,_ Venara thought. _It’s a game to them._  

Her jaw clenched, her fingers flexed and she summoned her remaining magic to her. 

“We need to fire that trebuchet!” Cassandra shouted. She had recovered, but her face was sooty and burned from the mage’s spell. “We have delayed for far too long!” 

“I’ll watch your back!” Venara called, hurling herself forwards once more.   

The battlefield became a hurricane of light and magic. It was storm against storm, ice against ice, fire against fire as they looped around the clearing. The Venatori were trained well and vigor was on their side. Though they had lost one of their own, they pushed back harder and stronger, testing Venara and Solas’ limits and hurtling every spell in their arsenal at Cassandra. 

They would not break. 

Venara flung herself around the clearing, her mana running low with each Fade step, gradually relying more and more on physical strikes with her staff. This fight had gone on for far too long. And unlike Lorenna, she had no way of restoring her energy quickly. She needed lyrium, which was back at Haven. She did not want to call a retreat. They could do this, they could defeat them— 

“Venara!” Solas called. He was a shadow engulfed in a hurricane of magical light. It cleared and she saw his worried expression. On the other side of the clearing, Cassandra was forcing her way through a series of lethal glyphs to arm and man the trebuchet. “Call the retreat! We must return to Haven!” 

“No!” she screamed. “Not yet!” 

“The trebuchet is lost! We will die if we stay here! Dorian and Varric will die!” 

“Not yet—Cassandra, _no!”_  

Venara struck a Venatori mage with the bladed end of her staff, a burst of blood gushing from his lips as she pulled her staff from his chest. He fell, but she paid no heed. Cassandra had reached the trebuchet. She was turning the wheel, pulling the mechanism into place when jagged ice crusted around her legs and wrists, freezing her in place. The mage who had frozen her was conjuring a spike of ice. When the spell was done, he would release the spike, throwing it at Cassandra’s exposed throat. She was powerless to defend herself. 

“CASSANDRA!” Venara yelled. She slipped by two mages, ducking under the staves and spells, hurtling towards the trebuchet. 

Cassandra’s eyes were dark. Her expression became steel, her upper lip rising in a snarl. She closed her eyes and a moment later a bright light burst from her, shooting in all directions through the clearing. 

The Venatori dropped to the ground, screaming in agony, dying where they lay. The frost magic holding Cassandra in place vanished. Venara fell, too, dropping, breathless, to her knees. She felt like she had been hit by a falling tree. As she gasped for breath, she realized that her mana had been completely drained. She could no longer cast magic. 

Panic set in. 

_No, no, no!_

She pulled herself to her feet, shaking hands gripping her staff. She looked up the hill at Solas. He had also been brought to his knees by whatever Cassandra had done, and he looked just as surprised and infuriated as Venara felt. 

Venara rounded on Cassandra.   

“What… did you _do?”_ she demanded. 

“I saved our lives,” she said. “They’re dead now.” 

“Yes, but what did you _do?”_

“A spell purge.” 

“A spell purge can do _this?”_ Venara exclaimed, waving a hand at the dead mages on the ground. She had heard of the abilities of templars, had seen them in action a handful of times before, but they did not compare to what Cassandra had done. 

But then she was a Seeker, not a templar. 

“No,” Cassandra said coldly. “After the spell purge, I set the lyrium in their blood on fire.”

“You can do that?” Venara asked. She tried not to feel queasy at the thought. 

“Yes,” Cassandra replied. “It is one of the abilities granted to me as a Seeker. I have had scarce opportunities to use it, but this was… dire. I am sure you agree.” 

Venara nodded. “It’s a good thing Solas and I were not using lyrium,” she said darkly, her voice shaking as she strode towards the trebuchet and placed her hands on the wheel. 

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said. “I… can’t control which mage is caught within it. Not in a moment of such chaos. Which is why I did not use it until I had to.” 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Venara muttered and began to turn the wheel. She grunted, fatigued muscles straining as she turned the mechanism. 

When it finally released, the projectile flying into the air towards the mountain, Venara stood back and watched. She felt Solas’ comforting presence beside her as they and Cassandra watched the rock fly towards Corypheus’ horde. It struck the mountain side. Venara heard the rumble of snow and ice as it began to slide. In the evening light, she could just make out the avalanche as it began to fall, suffocating the lights of the approaching army. 

“We did it,” she breathed. 

A cheer echoed across the valley. Cullen’s soldiers defending Haven’s gate would have seen the miracle from the walls. 

Venara leaned on her staff. Solas stood beside her, stoic as always, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She smiled at the comfortable familiarity. 

“That hit him hard,” she said. 

“Yes,” Solas murmured. “But he will strike back. This battle is far from over.” 

A monstrous cry tore through the air. A shadow crossed the moon, blocking it out, casting the land below into darkness. 

Venara looked up and fear shook her. 

“Dragon!” she shouted, sprinting back up the path towards the gate. _“Dragon!”_  

The dragon flew overhead, a skeletal shadow glowing the deep red of corrupted lyrium. It swooped down, blasting the trebuchet with fire, destroying it. Its claws reached for Venara as she ran, but Solas caught her and pulled her down into a crouch, protecting her body with his. The claws’ raked his shoulder, slicing through wool and fur to draw blood. The dragon screeched in fury, turning in the air for another pass. 

“Go, _go!”_ Cassandra yelled, pulling Solas and Venara to their feet as she sprinted down the path. “To the gate— _go!”_  

They ran. Haven’s bells were ringing. Cullen’s voice shouted a retreat. Venara breathed heavily as she ran, too drained of mana to assist her with a Fade step. As they passed the first clearing she was grateful to see that the trebuchet was clear, Dorian and Varric having already fled to the gate. Venara thundered down the path, Harrit’s forge finally in sight. Beyond that, she could see Cullen’s distinctive armour at the gate, reflecting the intense red flames of dragon fire that burned in the valley. 

“Hurry!” Venara yelled. 

They were almost there. 

They would make it. 

The dragon passed overhead. It shrieked as it swooped down, wings spread wide, its jaws open, its claws ready to kill. 

“HERALD!” 


End file.
